


To Fill a Book

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood (but only a tiny bit), Depressing sex, M/M, Smangst, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts (only briefly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's 3rd Christmas since Sherlock's fall takes an interesting turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fill a Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [picklepies](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=picklepies).



> I wrote this for picklepies as part of the Johnlockchallenges Re-Gift Exchange. The prompt was “Sherlock Christmas Gift Giving” (fic or art) in "any" genre with a rating of G, T, M, or E.
> 
> It's sort of a Christmas gift... 
> 
> I saw it was her birthday on the 20th, and December birthday should always get their own celebration. So, since she likes angst, I decided to give her an angsty fic, too! 
> 
> Happy Birthday, picklepies! I hope you like it! ♥

You could fill a book with all the things John Watson didn’t know.

For instance, John hadn’t realized in the midst of his last Christmas with Sherlock that it would, in fact, be his last. He let himself become annoyed, irritated, frustrated with his flat mate’s antics, because he didn’t know he should cherish every last moment of them. He didn’t know how far the mighty would fall a few short months later, or that his tears would follow closely behind. He had no idea he would spend three Christmases in succession on his knees at a grave site, professing his love to the spirit of a dead man.

He never knew how cold a polished stone could feel or how harshly unrequited—or, at least, unspoken –love could sting. He wasn’t aware of the depths of his own soul. It was beyond him to think that tears could scorch cheeks and that desire for someone—someone utterly unobtainable –could be physically painful. He never knew how completely and unconditionally he could love. He didn’t know… until it was too late.

***

John slowly ascended the stairs to 221B, his trousers sopping wet from the patch of snow he’d melted in front of Sherlock’s grave. It didn’t matter that his nose was chapped, his lips were swollen, or his eyes were red and puffy. It didn’t matter that his hands were frozen or his legs had gone as numb as his heart. It didn’t matter, because nothing mattered. This was his third Christmas alone and the third time he would go to sleep praying, to a God he’d denounced the day Sherlock fell— _What sort of God would allow that to happen? What sort of God would let such a brilliant man die a fake, a phony, a goddamn fucking joke?_ –that he might never wake to see December 26.  Twice he had been disappointed when the sun rose and slanted through his window, but third time’s a charm, right?

Once through the door, John toed off his socks and shoes and shed his soiled clothes. He pulled on Sherlock’s dressing gown—reserved for Christmases and birthdays –and tried to breathe in what was left of him. Truth be told, what was left of him was precisely nothing, but the brain is a gloriously torturous thing sometimes. He still remembered Sherlock’s scent and wanted to smell it so badly that his olfactory memory created it out of pure magic.

He sat in front of the twinkling Christmas tree, all the joy of the holiday gone. It was just a façade that put the rest of the world at ease, let them tell themselves that he would be okay, that he _was_ okay—basically, he let them lie. His left hand gingerly fingered the strings of Sherlock’s violin, the only item in their—no, _his_ … _‘their’_ was in the past –flat that ever truly felt his genius’ touch the way he only wished he had. He hated it, envied, and— _oh, god_ –how he missed the sound of it. He missed the way Sherlock could draw the most glorious cries from it and was all too painfully reminded of the times he’d allowed the memory of Sherlock to draw similar sounds from him when he was alone in his room in the dark.

He thought about demolishing it, taking vengeance against his rival—the lover who had won the heart of the man he’d only dared to covet. He wanted to destroy it and that bloody skull on the mantel, smash them against the yellow face on the wall—the one that smiled all the while it stabbed him in his heart and twisted. Because a smiley face is insufferable when it only causes you pain.

Those thoughts were merely a passing fancy, though. If he did wake in the morning, as he had the previous years, he would still want that violin and skull and smug fucking smiley face. He’d want them, because the pain of Sherlock’s absence was all he’d left in his wake.

Shiny, round orbs gently swayed on the tree, every movement or gush of warm air from the vent setting them again into motion. A particular one taunted him, a pale silvery blue one that seemed to precisely mimic the colour of Sherlock’s eyes—at least, as best he could remember them. The worst thing John didn’t know until it was too late was that memories of people—even people we love –begin to fade over time. Where he once knew every detail of Sherlock’s face—the slightest blemishes and creases, every quirk of his every feature –his mental picture of it was now vaguer and less precise. He could still see it plain as day, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. And, if he’d lost so much in only three years, what would happen after a decade? He didn’t even know he’d plucked the ball from the tree until he heard it shatter at his feet.

His heart sank as he realize that all things Sherlock seemed to be lost to a fall, and just as he’d done on the pavement outside St. Bart’s, John dropped again to his knees with tears in his eyes, ready to collect the pieces of his broken love. And, just as before, the broken shell in front of him was beyond repair, leaving him to play the role of the helpless doctor.

He scooped up the shards, each a small reminder of everything he’d lost, and carried them to the bin. And, as they dropped to settle with the other rubbish, he noticed the tiniest droplet of blood on the surface of his skin. He pulled his palm to his mouth and sucked at it and then looked longingly as it formed again. He glanced at the bin full of shiny, sharp edges and wished he was brave enough to follow Sherlock into the dark. But he wasn’t and never would be. He didn’t have the heart to leave anyone feeling for him what he was forced to feel for Sherlock. He would endure, like a good little soldier, like the obedient masochist he was.

Back in the parlour, he flopped on the couch, stared up at the ceiling, and thought of his lost love. He sucked the blood from his palm one last time and made sure no more came to the surface before smoothing his hands down the blue ripples of the dressing gown. His eyelids fell shut, and he allowed himself to believe the warm skin he felt was Sherlock’s. He pictured the long, lean lines of Sherlock’s body beneath the fabric’s folds and then imagined his own hands belonged to his dearly departed when they slipped beneath the elastic of his pants.

His strokes were achingly long and deliberate, suspended disbelief allowing the touch of a specter to pull piteous moans from his throat. The flick of his wrist and twisting of digits—digits that knew just how he liked it –inspired a choked off sob. He was so hard it hurt, and that’s precisely what he wanted. He wouldn’t allow himself to release anytime soon, because the pain of wanting and needing and sheer fucking desperation was one of the few times he could still feel anything at all.

Hot rivers of salt water ran from the corners of his eyes, his teeth sinking so deeply into his bottom lip that the metallic tang of blood shocked his tongue. He pressed the fingers of his free hand inside himself, slicked only with saliva and inserted with very little finesse. He quivered and whimpered and—on occasion –downright cried out Sherlock’s name, but it would still be a good long while before he brought himself off. The torment was too delicious, which served to make his imaginings—his fabricated memories –even more potent.

“Let me help,” came the deep baritone from just above him before winter chilled hands replaced his own.

And, when John peeked out through his lashes, the face he saw was that of a ghost. Sherlock’s features were once again sharp and specific, but they often were in the hazy throes of agony and ecstasy. John didn’t even question it and instead just gave silent praise to his imagination, gave himself over to the fantasy. A heart-shaped mouth descended upon his prick, licking and sucking with fervor, and each languid, lingering pull felt like an apology.

He thrashed his head against the sofa cushion when he was brought to the edge and quickly denied, fingers—now warmer –wriggling inside of him once again. They scissored and sank deeper, taunting and teasing at his prostate. Each sweep across the hypersensitive bundle of nerves sent fire through his veins. A thumb pressed and massaged circles against his perineum, and the suction of a skilled mouth held his foreskin over his glans while a talented tongue swirled in the space between.

Then he was once again engulfed, the constricting of a throat when swallowing and the vibrato of a hum pulling him over the edge. His vision burst white behind his eyelids, the shock of sparks settling across every inch of his body. His pulse spiked and his back arched as he came hard and fast, erupting once, twice, and a third time.

His body still tingled as he melted into the sofa, but there was no heat of release on his stomach, no pearlescent river careening down his fist. And, when he reached for the form in front of him, it didn’t vanish. It was tangible and firm and offered resistance against his touch. It moved when he gently shook it and softened when he stroked it. When he pressed a finger to its lips, it sucked it in. When he traced its cheekbone with his thumb, it sighed. And—the greatest trick of all –when he asked if it was real, it spoke, “Very.”

Tears in John’s eyes formed anew, the miracle in front of him simply too much to bear. Dead men can’t speak or breathe or _suck_. He scrambled to grasp at clothing, thread fingers into curls, press a set of deeply bowed lips against his own. “How?” he breathed.

“Later,” came the impossibly quiet reply.

John nodded and didn’t even realize he was already peeling back the layers of Sherlock’s clothing. As the final pieces fell away, an expanse of milky white skin was revealed. It was a perfect canvas, blank and pure. And, with trembling hands, he reached out and touched. The flesh was warm beneath his palms and did its best to prove its legitimacy.

A few seconds later, John slipped out of his own pants, the ones still clinging to his thighs. He was clad only in Sherlock’s dressing gown, which hung open and left him exposed. His eyes never left his fallen friend’s face as he drew the ghost of a man in for another deep, sentiment-laden kiss. When they broke for air, he pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Fuck me.”

“John.” Sherlock stopped, looked astounded by the name on his lips. He seemed mesmerized by his ability to once again speak that single, lonely syllable. After several long seconds, he continued, “You don’t have to—”

“Please?” John reached between them and wrapped timid fingers around Sherlock’s shaft. “I need to know you’re real.”

Sherlock shuddered at his touch and nodded. “But I don’t have—”

“I don’t care.”

“John, I—”

With one hand on Sherlock’s prick and the other on his hip, John guided him forward and pressed aching glans to eager entrance. “I don’t care,” John practically growled. “Fuck me.”

So, Sherlock slowly thrust forward, John’s insistent hand encouraging him to press on. “Christ, John.”

“Deeper,” John hissed through clenched teeth.

“You’re still incredibly tight. This must be painful for you.”

John snaked his arms under Sherlock’s and hooked his hands over the detective’s shoulders. “Not enough.” He tugged and coaxed until Sherlock was buried to his hilt, then wrapped his legs around the man’s narrow waist to gain another few millimeters.

And, at John’s urging—his voice dripping with wanton desperation –Sherlock began to move. John sucked in a harsh breath and painted angry red strokes with his fingernails across the pristine pale landscape of Sherlock’s back. He scrambled for purchase on sweat slicked skin and absolutely ached for further corporeal proof of Sherlock’s continued existence.

For a long while, they writhed in a visceral barrage of clawing and clinging and crying—the pain where their bodies connected relieving the agony of three years’ emotional disconnect. The more it hurt, the more John could convince himself it wasn’t just a dream. ‘Proof of reality’ was suddenly a hot commodity.

Scratching and biting—marking Sherlock as _his_ –John begged for more. And, while their bodies moved in unison, there was a clear dissonance in their pillow talk—apologies from one and prayers from the other, all of it peppered with a touch of the profane. From the outside, it would have looked controlled—John’s knees now bent nearly to his shoulders and Sherlock snapping his hips in short, rapid strokes. And, if not for heavy breathing and the subtle whisperings of _‘I’m sorry’_ and _‘Please, God, don’t take him again,’_ the flat would have been silent. But, within their bubble—within John’s _mind_ –they were wild and reckless and savage.

His cock—once withered against Sherlock’s lips –had sprung back to life and jutted up between their bodies.

“Touch yourself.” The words on Sherlock’s lips sounded more of question than command, and Sherlock pulled back just enough to rake his icy gaze down John’s body so as to watch.

John’s hand moved upon its own volition, his already abused bottom lip held firmly between his teeth. And, as his fingers curled to encircle his cock, he began taking long, measured strokes with the eyes of his lover upon him. Under other circumstances, such intense scrutiny during an act of intimacy may have bordered on unease, but with Sherlock, it fell under unadulterated eroticism.

“Cum, and let me know it’s for me,” Sherlock said, his tone verging on desperate.

“It’s always for you, Sherlock. _Every time_ , it’s for you.”

John’s reply was punctuated by the heat of Sherlock’s release spilling inside of him, and his own followed closely behind—grunting and panting and tugging so hard at Sherlock’s curls that he’d come away with ebony strands still trapped between his fingers. Contentment and exhaustion taking them over, they drifted off to sleep precisely where they lay and without uttering a single word.

***

When December 26 inevitably came, John awoke—despite the prayers he’d forgotten to renounce –alone. And, sadly, he wasn’t surprised. It had felt so real, but it always did. His imagination _had_ become rather skilled in the past three years, and… _wait… is that… coffee?_

John stumbled into the kitchen to see a very real, very alive Sherlock Holmes digging through the cabinets. “Y-you’re really here,” he said with amazement.

“Of course. I would have thought you’d have remembered after last—”

Sherlock’s sentence was cut short when John’s fist connected with his face. He landed on his arse with a thud, his head dropping back to rest on the wall behind him. And John rushed to his aid, a lap-full of Army doctor acting as an apology.

“I mourned you,” John whimpered as he kissed and licked the crimson trail running from Sherlock’s newly split lip. “I loved… I _love_ you.”

“And I you.” Sherlock ran his fingers through morning mussed, sandy blonde locks. “I had my reasons. I did it for you.”

“Tell me later.” John nuzzled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Today isn’t a day for explanations.

It would be easy to fill a book with everything John Watson didn’t know, but with Sherlock in his arms, you could fill entire libraries with how much he didn’t fucking care.

**Author's Note:**

> Orgasms make good gifts... right? Or maybe Sherlock's return was the gift? I dunno! I just... I just wanted to write this, okay?
> 
> Commenting, as always, is encouraged!


End file.
